Sherlock Eats
by wendymarlowe
Summary: John is sick of cooking food for Sherlock and Sherlock ignoring it. He turns to the principles of classical conditioning: if he can't make Sherlock get hungry when he smells food, maybe he can make him horny instead . . .
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, come eat." John tipped the scrambled eggs onto two plates and examined the salt and pepper shakers carefully for chemical residue before using them on his own.

"Not hungry."

"You didn't eat anything yesterday."

Footsteps from the living room where Sherlock was pacing. "I'm on a case, John. I don't eat while I'm on a case."

John frowned, then tipped Sherlock's eggs onto his own plate.

* * *

"I made you a sandwich."

"No." Sherlock stretched his impossibly long legs even farther across the sofa cushions and pressed his fingertips to his temples. "I can't think about food now."

John brought him the sandwich anyway. Then threw it out several hours later when it hadn't even been touched.

* * *

"I'm cooking tonight, actual cooking, and I expect you to eat something." John set down the Tesco's bag on the miraculously clear counter. "If you don't like chicken and dumplings, tell me now - I can come up with something else if you prefer."

Sherlock poked his head through the kitchen doorway. "Why are you so eager to feed me, John? I'm fine."

"You're bloody well not fine. You haven't eaten in two days. And yes, I know you've spent most of it in your bloody mind palace, but you're not eating there either. Your brain can't run without fuel - surely you know that. Or did you delete it?"

"I think better when I'm hungry."

"No you don't." John set the pot of water to boil and pulled out the cutting board to start on the chicken. When he turned around again, Sherlock was flopping theatrically on the sofa in his "leave me alone I'm thinking" pose. _Bloody drama queen._

John spent the next hour cooking, reveling in the tactile sensation of flour on his hands and the smell of chicken stock simmering. Chicken and dumplings wasn't a particularly difficult dish, honestly, just a time-consuming one. It was a nice change from the surgery, though - no rush, no precision necessary, just chopping up chicken and putting it in a pot and then mixing up some dumpling dough to plop in on top by the spoonful. The smell was heavenly, and John rather thought that if Sherlock wasn't hungry by this point, he might very well be the robot Donovan kept accusing him of being.

"Come eat," he called once it was done.

Sherlock flopped over on the sofa. "I told you I don't need any."

"Yes you do."

Silence.

John leaned against the doorframe, thinking. Sherlock in a strop was hardly an easy target for persuasion, but this was getting ridiculous. John had bloody well put a good deal of effort - well, time, anyway - into cooking dinner, and it was grating for Sherlock to ignore him so thoroughly. If only there were a way to train him -

The idea came to him in a flash of brilliance like the ones he usually only saw from his flatmate.

"Sherlock, you're gay, right?" he asked as casually as he could manage.

Sherlock stilled at that and turned to look at him. "Where did that come from?"

John shrugged. "Just - you are, aren't you."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "If you want a label, then that's as good as any."

"And you've had an orgasm before. With a man."

"That's rather a large part of that definition, yes." Sherlock turned fully so he was lying on the sofa facing John. "Although there wasn't just one man, if you want to be pedantic. Why? You're not homophobic, and if you were, it would be a little late to start now."

"And you found sex to be a generally positive experience, I assume?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Surely you don't need me to explain the neurochemistry involved in an orgasm?"

John bit his lip and nodded. "Right then. I mean, no, I did actually attend medical school, and I do know about the neurochemistry. I just wanted to make sure an orgasm would be a suitable positive reinforcement for you."

Sherlock looked like he was about to say something, but instead he closed his mouth again and blinked a few times.

_Well he's not yelling, at least_. John straightened and crossed his arms, trying not to look as nervous about this as he felt. "Here's what we're going to do," he announced. "You are going to get up from that sofa and come sit at the kitchen table with me like a civilized person. I am going to give you a bowl of chicken and dumplings and you are going to eat." He held up his hand, cutting off Sherlock's immediate protest. "That's the conditioned stimulus."

John could practically see the wheels inside Sherlock's head turning. "Classical conditioning?" Sherlock finally asked.

John lowered his chin in assent. "The unconditioned stimulus will be, literally, stimulation - my hand on your cock, getting you off, for as long as you keep eating. If you want to come, you need to eat enough for that to happen."

Sherlock frowned, but his eyes were bright. "You want to condition me to get horny whenever I eat."

"Trying to make you hungry hasn't worked, so I figured it was the next logical step."

It sounded positively ridiculous when he said it like that, but Sherlock didn't seem to be preparing a blistering retort. He looked like he was seriously considering it, actually. "Why would you want to?" he finally asked.

_I'm asking myself the same thing._ John felt his own "not gay" label flagging a bit, but at the moment he couldn't be arsed to care. "Maybe I want to be the one calling the shots, for once," he answered. "Or maybe I just want to see you get off. Maybe I'm gay too after all. Who the hell knows? I just want you to eat."

Sherlock waited a few moments longer, but then suddenly levered himself up off the sofa. "Right, then. I suppose I could manage a few bites."


	2. Chapter 2

There were logistics involved. John hadn't really planned for that. It turned out not to be that big a deal, though, just awkward - he'd have to pull his chair disturbingly close to Sherlock's and eat one-handed. Eventually John had everything set: Sherlock just to his right, matching bowls of not-quite-steaming-anymore-but-still-pleasantly-hot chicken and dumplings in front of them, and his hand in Sherlock's lap.

Not _doing_ anything yet, just sitting there. It was odd. They'd touched before, of course - little passing gestures between friends, a hand on the shoulder or the brush of bodies as they crammed themselves into some tight alley while on a case - but never with _purpose_ quite like this. John kept his fingers meticulously still on Sherlock's upper thigh and tried not to think about how uncomfortable this whole mess would be if Sherlock suddenly decided he'd rather just keep sulking and go hungry. God, that would be embarrassing.

_"Bon appetit,"_ Sherlock murmured, and speared a forkful of chicken. John nodded and tried to do the same. His attention was fully caught, though, by the way the muscles in Sherlock's neck moved as he opened his mouth. Slid the chicken off the fork. Chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed. John hastily stuffed a bite in his own mouth.

"Are you going through with this?"

John started at the deep rumble of Sherlock's voice coming from so close to his ear._ Lousy time to get lost in your own thoughts, John,_ he scolded himself. He had promised, though. And truth be told, he was more than a little curious to see how this would pan out - Sherlock had never been overtly _sexual_ before, as far as he could tell, but the potential was certainly there. Sherlock flirted shamelessly when it benefited him on cases. John had even seen him share a mind-bendingly scorching kiss with a secretary once, after skulking about a law firm after hours and discovering he needed access to one of the partner's appointment calendars. It had taken several days of determinedly _not_ thinking about it before John stopped having flashbacks to the way her body had absolutely melted at Sherlock's touch. At the time he tried to tell himself it was _her_ he was fantasizing about, being the one to evoke that reaction, but his internal protests had never really been that convincing.

And now he was about to take this strange friendship one very, very odd step further. John let his fingers skate upwards, trailing from Sherlock's thigh to his zipper. Sherlock was quiet, just watching him . . . Before John could change his mind, he popped the button from its mooring and dragged the zipper downward.

"Impressive, one-handed," Sherlock murmured. "Your dexterity reveals your years as a doctor, of course. Shall I take another bite?"

John kept his eyes on his own bowl. Nodded. Tried not to focus too much on the delicious heat so close to his right hand. Sherlock ate another mouthful of chicken.

And this time, John's fingers reached through the flap of Sherlock's Y-fronts and worked Sherlock's cock free of all the annoying fabric. Sherlock was half-hard now, skin smooth and a little bit elastic under John's palm. As John firmed his grip, Sherlock's erection firmed as well. It was . . . nice.

No, "nice" wasn't the right word. Thrilling. Enticing. Vaguely forbidden. Hot as hell. And made John very aware he was having a similar reaction. John peeked out of the corner of his eye at Sherlock's expression. And -

_Christ. He's watching me._ Sherlock may have nominally been eyeing his bowl, but his attention was firmly on _John_. Who suddenly felt the need to eat another mouthful of chicken. No, wait, that bite was dumpling. _Whatever._

They fell into a slow rhythm - Sherlock ate with mechanical precision, one unhurried forkful at a time, and John let his fingers explore the length of Sherlock's cock. Four bites in it was completely hard; after twelve bites John felt the first milky droplets leaking from the tip. They never actually met each other's eyes, both pretending to be eating, but John could tell Sherlock was more than a little discomposed by the effect John's stroking had on him.

And, if he was being honest with himself, John was a bit shaken as well. There was still a voice hovering just outside his conscious mind chanting _not gay not gay not gay_ but John wasn't inclined to listen to it right now, wasn't inclined to do anything but eat his chicken and dumplings and stroke Sherlock off and try not to pay too much attention to the bulge in his own pants. Sherlock must have noticed - of course he would, he noticed everything - but he continued to eat in silence.

Well, _almost_-silence. Halfway through the meal, John became aware of the tiny, breathy sounds coming from Sherlock's throat. He may not have even been aware he was making them, but he very definitely was and they were going straight to John's cock. His _not gay not gay_ cock, which was horribly affronted at being so thoroughly ignored and was staging a protest of its own, of sorts. John shifted his weight in his chair. He was aching something fierce, but if he touched himself Sherlock would look, would notice, and then somehow this whole strange tableau would be broken and it would become awkward and embarrassing to have his hand stroking up and down on his flatmate's dick. As long as neither of them acknowledged what they were doing, they could keep doing it.

Sherlock was twitching, now, little tilts of his hips whenever John's hand worked all the way to the base of his shaft. John watched out his peripheral vision and couldn't help imagining what those hips would feel like under his palms, if John were lying flat on his back on his bed and Sherlock was braced over him, nudging -

Nudging where? John's sole experience with anal sex was a long-ago girlfriend who had tentatively suggested it, then decided _never again ever _and dumped him a week later and that was it. Something told him it would be different with Sherlock, though - Sherlock, who knew what he was doing, who had those incredible long limbs and pale skin and sharp, angular cheekbones (hipbones as well?) and was now radiating_ fuck me now_ just as much as John was. Sex with Sherlock would be -

"I seem to have finished my bowl," Sherlock said quietly. Still mostly in control, damn him, just a hint of breathlessness in his tone. "Do I get a prize for finishing my supper?"

John blinked out of his ruminations. Sherlock had, indeed, finished his entire portion of chicken and dumplings. His cock was still hard - so magnificently hard - and straining under John's touch, but he hadn't come. And he clearly wanted to. So did John.

Sherlock pushed back his chair. "Come here," he growled.

John acquiesced to the long fingers prodding at his waist, guiding him around, settling him backwards on Sherlock's lap, tilting his hips forward. Those nimble fingers sped over the front of his trousers, tugging and twisting, and then his trousers were unzipped and Sherlock had tugged his erection out from his pants and it was absolutely fucking _glorious_. Sherlock pressed their cocks together, the angle only a little awkward given their relative positions, and placed John's hand around them both.

"Fuck, Sherlock, this is -"

Sherlock chuckled, dark and low. "I know. Come on, now - reward me." He cupped his own hand over John's and guided him in a long, slow stroke which left John gasping. The feel of Sherlock's delicate skin, pressed so tightly against his own, the odd but comfortable feeling of two cocks under his fingers -

Sherlock reached around behind John's back and dipped his free hand in the forgotten remains of John's chicken and dumplings.

"What -"

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him, then. No hand to pull his neck down and lock their mouths together, just the hypnotic draw of Sherlock's eyes and his lips and the heat of his skin. John closed his eyes and surrendered to the sensation of Sherlock's tongue probing against the corner of his mouth, tracing the seam of his lips. And when he opened his mouth to return the volley, Sherlock surged inside and John felt his entire skin peeling inside-out. Revealing a different John. A shivery, content John. The _not gay not gay_ voice had long since shut up.

A warm, moist feeling made him jump, then absolutely tingle. John broke the kiss and looked down - Sherlock's fingers were coated in chicken-and-dumpling slime, and they were currently slicking the warm mixture down and around John's cock, then around Sherlock's own. It shouldn't have been sexy - shouldn't have been anything other than vaguely awkward - but this was _Sherlock_ and he was nothing if not awkward and weird and sexy all mixed up together into something altogether more. And when Sherlock tightened his hand over John's once more and coaxed him to slide their joined hands over their joined cocks, it was suddenly the most transformative sexual experience of John's life.

He couldn't look. Couldn't let himself watch the slow, slick slide of skin over skin. He was so fucking close already, he couldn't afford to -

"Come for me, John," Sherlock rumbled softly in his ear. "I want to see you come apart right here in my lap. Take me with you."

And apparently _that_ was what it took, Sherlock's rough baritone imploring him to let go, because John tightened his grip and pumped twice more and then oh Christ, he was coming. John let his head loll forward against Sherlock's neck as he felt his release sweep through him. He vaguely realized that Sherlock was tensed up beneath him too, then Sherlock was coming as well, their ejaculate mixing and making a ridiculous mess over their clothes.

John took a deep breath and straightened his spine._ I just jacked off in Sherlock's lap. Jacked both of us off. With fucking chicken and dumplings for lube._

That last bit was one realization more than he could stand - John couldn't hide his giggle.

Sherlock's posture was stiffening again, after being momentary boneless post-orgasm. Sherlock snatched a napkin from the table and gingerly wiped the residual semen and chicken-and-dumpling slime off his hand. "Amused?" he asked quietly.

"Sorry." John shifted his weight backward, putting a bit of space between them and allowing Sherlock to dab (ineffectively) at the mess they'd made. "I just - yeah."

Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a kiss to John's temple. "I know."

* * *

John woke up the next morning feeling absolutely ravenous. He threw some clothes on, then stumbled down the stairs to see whether Sherlock was up yet - or had slept at all. Sherlock's door was still closed and the sink was dry, though, so he obviously wasn't up yet.

Would he be hungry for breakfast? Previous experience said no, but after Sherlock's enthusiastic response to John's experiment last night, John wasn't so sure. He wandered into the kitchen and surveyed his options. Eggs and sausage in the refrigerator, two tomatoes which didn't look too horrible, bread for toast - _ah_. John's gaze stopped when it hit the kitchen table. The conspicuously clean kitchen table, which currently held an unlikely centerpiece combination made up of the salt shaker, the pepper shaker, and a giant bottle of lube.

_Right then_. John would have to have a talk with Sherlock about appropriate table decorations, preferably before the next time Mrs. Hudson popped by to check on them, but he felt pretty confident Sherlock wasn't upset about what they had done the night before. And would possibly be hungry for breakfast.

John put four slices of bread in to toast.

* * *

"Sherlock, I'm shocked," Donovan said immediately upon seeing them at the crime scene. "You've gained weight. Decided your body runs on food as well as nicotine and sarcasm?"

Lestrade shot her a reproachful look, but he was eyeing Sherlock as well. "Wasn't going to say anything," he finally commented, "but you have filled out a bit. Good for you."

Sherlock's lips twisted upward into a small smile. "What can I say? John's been feeding me well."


	3. Chapter 3

**I really was planning to stop where I left off, but I couldn't stop thinking about this one. I hope y'all don't mind some bonus smut :-)**

* * *

Sherlock stormed through the door of 221B in an absolute lather. John glanced up from his laptop.

"Bad day at the crime scene?"

Sherlock growled something and tore off his coat. "Bakery, John."

"Pardon?"

Sherlock stomped over to where John was sitting in his armchair and assaulted John's mouth with a voracious kiss. "Bakery," he repeated after he drew back a long minute later. "Woman got herself murdered in her flat above a fucking bakery. Smelled like fresh bread the whole damn time."

John tried to keep his lips from curving upward. "And this bothered you?"

"Because I'm _HUNGRY!_" Sherlock shoved John's laptop to the side with barely-adequate care and launched himself into John's lap like an oversized cat. "Trust you to do one bloody experiment the whole time we live together, and it's a success." He caught John's hand and placed it very deliberately over the bulge in his trousers. "Feed me, John."

John allowed himself one luxurious squeeze, then folded his hands primly in what was left of his lap. "What are you hungry for, then?"

Sherlock's eyes got darker as he leaned closer. "You," he answered simply, before claiming John's mouth again.

And _Christ_ he was a good kisser. John fancied himself at least above average when it came to snogging - he'd certainly had enough practice - but Sherlock was damn near psychic in his ability to read when John wanted _more_ or _harder_ or _now with a bit of tongue, deeper_ and usually it was all John could do to keep his head above water. Sherlock was relentless and had no shame whatsoever about making the most wanton noises and even after the last two months of semi-regular joint masturbation, he could still make John practically forget his own name.

Not today, though. John had the advantage of having just tossed one off in the shower after coming home from the surgery, not an hour earlier. Sherlock still was making his head spin, but not quite as thoroughly as usual. Eventually John managed to shove Sherlock off him, the detective landing in an undignified sprawl on the floor.

"What was that for?"

John braced his elbows on his knees (minimized the chance of Sherlock climbing into his lap again) and fixed his flatmate with an innocent smile. "You said you were hungry. What _food_ would you like?"

Sherlock ran his hand through his already-messy curls, but didn't attempt to reassert his claim on John's mouth. "Thought I made that clear," he grumbled.

"Yes, well." John stood and headed for the kitchen, not bothering to look back to see whether Sherlock was following him. "You need actual nutrition - that's part of the deal. I'll make you a sandwich."

"Can't we just do what we always do?"

And yes, there was the sound of Sherlock's footsteps on the floorboards behind him, stopping in the kitchen doorway.

"I like watching you eat," John said simply.

"You mean you like exerting that kind of control over me," Sherlock corrected.

"Call it what you like, but you will eat a sandwich before you get off."

Sherlock growled again, but plopped himself down in one of the kitchen chairs. "Make it fast."

"Talk to me like that and you'll be making your own bloody sandwich, and then some."

"You like that I'm gaining weight?"

John put down the bread knife and turned. "I think I do." He studied Sherlock's form - definitely less skin-and-bones than he had been two months earlier. "Not that I'm trying to get you fat or anything, but I like knowing that you're letting me take care of you."

"I wanted you to be _taking care of me_ a minute ago, but you refused."

John laughed and quickly finished throwing together a ham sandwich. He didn't even have a chance to cut it before Sherlock was grabbing it off the counter.

"Can I eat this in my room?"

"You want me to come with you?"

Sherlock shot him a _don't be an idiot_ look. John wrapped the rest of the loaf, put it back in the breadbox, and followed Sherlock back to his bedroom. Where he found Sherlock sitting on his bed, shirtless, just _smelling_ his sandwich.

"It's really very strange," Sherlock said quietly. "I know it's just a sandwich. I saw you make it. But the smell of it gets me hard. The sandwich doesn't make me hungry on its own, but the sandwich makes me horny and my arousal makes me hungry. You've re-wired me."

"Yes, well, that was rather the idea." John shucked his own jumper and shirt and shoes, so both of them were lounging on the bed in just their trousers and pants. "It's only fair, after all the experiments you've put me through. You fucking _drugged_ me - I'm not going to be over that one for a long time."

Sherlock took a bite and moaned. "Touch me."

John shuffled forward and unbuttoned Sherlock's trousers. Funny how none of this embarrassed him anymore - he hadn't meant for this friendship to become sexual, but somehow the sex (_well, kind-of sex, it's not like they had actually gone much further than touching, really_) melded into the friendship and the cases and the living arrangements and the care and feeding of Sherlock and it just all _fit_. And he certainly wasn't complaining, considering how often he was getting off now too.

Sherlock hummed around the second bite of sandwich as John teased open the zipper and dragged the trousers and pants from his long legs. Sherlock was already hard, and John couldn't resist a few feather-light strokes just to annoy him.

Which had the immediate intended effect of making Sherlock nearly choke on his sandwich. "Bloody hell, John!"

"You did say to touch you." John ghosted another teasing stroke from root to tip, then sat back on his heels and folded his hands in his lap. "Finish your lunch and we can make up for lost time."

Sherlock inhaled the rest of the sandwich, then flopped back on the bed and moaned. "So bloody hard for you. Are you going to insist I take tea, too?"

"Mmm, not today." John reached forward to cradle Sherlock's erection in his cupped hands. "Tell me about the case, though."

"Not much to tell - barely merited a six." John's fingers grazed Sherlock's perineum, and Sherlock groaned obscenely. "Lube's in the top drawer."

"I remember. The case, Sherlock. Keep talking - I love the way your voice gets gravelly when you're turned on."

"That would be absolutely all the bloody time now, thanks to you." Sherlock clutched fistfuls of the sheets to keep his hands at his sides.

"Sherlock -"

"Fine." Sherlock's gaze focused somewhere in the middle of the ceiling. "Blonde woman, mid-twenties, works with young children, probably in a preschool. Not highly educated, so possibly an aide of some kind. Rode a bicycle to work most of the time but opted to take the Tube Frida-_uuungh_."

John eased his grip on Sherlock's bollocks back to a gentle stroke. "Yes, and?"

_"Bloody hell, John."_

"Keep going." John leaned over Sherlock's body to grab the lube out of the drawer, but kept his hand moving slowly.

"And-she-was-murdered-in-her-flat. _Please, harder!_"

John pumped a good-sized dollop of lube into his palm to warm it and resumed, only a tiny bit harder than he had before. "Keep talking - if you stop, I stop." Sherlock moaned, but John ignored it. "What were the circumstances of the murder?" he asked.

"-Tube Friday because of the rain. Someone followed her back to her door and confronted her in the street, they argued, and she tried to hit him with her purse. _Fuck._"

John stilled his hand until Sherlock started again, running through his list of deductions at the crime scene (missing key ring, a strange divot worn into in the bedroom rug, no toothpaste anywhere in the flat, one earring more tarnished than the other). He loved when Sherlock got like this, spouting anything and everything with no filter whatsoever, all in that gutteral "_fuck me now_" tone he only used when he was ridiculously aroused. It's like his magnificent brain was a fire hose of information and he was no longer throttling the throughput. Sherlock was only halfway present now, wrapped up in his deductions and the sensation of John's hand working his cock, and it was delicious.

But John wanted more. They had never discussed this (never talked about it at all, really), but Sherlock had made it abundantly clear he was up for anything John deigned to throw his way. And today John wanted to push the boundary a bit. He gripped his left index finger in his lube-slicked hand, coating it thoroughly, then ran it gently downward and back just as Sherlock was coming to the part where Anderson thought the obvious murder was a suicide and Sherlock was berating him for being an idiot.

There were advantages to being a doctor, and one was knowing your anatomy. John slipped his slick finger inside Sherlock with very little resistance and found his target immediately.

Sherlock's steam of words just - stopped. His eyes popped open and he arched his back, but the room was suddenly silent except for the combined sounds of heavy breathing.

"Always knew you must have an off switch," John murmured. "Pity it's in such an inconvenient location." He tightened his right hand on Sherlock's cock and stroked Sherlock's prostate again with his left index finger. "This good?"

Sherlock's mouth dropped open and his head rolled wildly back and forth. "Good - so good - just - _bloody fucking buggering hell_."

John couldn't suppress his grin. Sherlock only swore when he was already half gone, and four in a row was a very good sign. He resumed his steady rhythm, a bit faster now, matching the movement of his finger to the movement of his other hand. Sherlock was muttering, beyond even profanity, hips stuttering against empty air as he tried to thrust into John's hand. And when he came a minute later, it was with a roar that probably would have shocked Mrs. Hudson if she hadn't already figured out ages ago what her tenants were up to.

John was able to go wash up and grab a damp cloth to clean up the mess by the time Sherlock was properly verbal again. He came back in the bedroom to find Sherlock reclining on the bed, licking his lips and rubbing little circles on his chest with his palm.

"That was . . . you want a hand too?"

John glanced down at his half-hard cock. "Thanks, but I'm good. Next time, maybe."

Sherlock's look said he very clearly understood the unspoken bit about John having had a wank in the shower after work, but he didn't push it. Instead, he cleaned the mess off his stomach and tossed the cloth over into the laundry hamper.

"Did you really want to hear about the case?"

John slid back onto the bed next to him. This wasn't usually a part of their whatever-it-was either, but he'd just had his finger up Sherlock's ass and it seemed a bit silly to avoid pillow talk at this point. "I did," he admitted. "I mean, I like hearing your voice, but I also like hearing how your brain works."

"You do still amaze me, John." Sherlock stole a gentle kiss. "For all the times I've been an absolutely insufferable flatmate and friend, you've never told me to piss off or called me a freak."

"That's because you're not." John brushed a curl of hair away from Sherlock's face. "I don't know exactly what this is that we have here, but I like it. And it's not just about the orgasms - it's because I like being with you. When you're moaning for me _and_ when you're all focused on a case."

Sherlock's lips turned up on one side. "And when I'm eating?"

"Especially then." And John leaned in to kiss away the smirk.


End file.
